


Picnic on Aix

by fannishliss



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:33:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://develish.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://develish.livejournal.com/"></a><b>develish</b> asked for a fic where the Tardis gets tired of all the UST and strands them until they deal with it.  This fic takes place after "Father's Day" -- they go to a picnic planet, but the Tardis locks them out in the rain until they come to terms with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**title: Picnic on Aix** , part one  
author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)**fannishliss**  
pairing: Nine/Rose  
rating: ultimately NC17   
length: 11,100 words in all, broken into parts.  Part One is 2300 words and rated G. 

summary: [](http://develish.livejournal.com/profile)[**develish**](http://develish.livejournal.com/) asked for a fic where the Tardis gets tired of all the UST and strands them until they deal with it.  This fic takes place after "Father's Day" -- they go to a picnic planet, but the Tardis locks them out in the rain until they come to terms with each other.

 

The very lovely Desertport has made a podfic of this story!!  Find it here.  http://desertport.livejournal.com/155791.html

 

 

  


He is a Time Lord.  At least that is what he calls himself.  He has a time machine that is meant to carry him through Time and Space to any destination in the universe.

Yet, for some reason, he and his lovely companion are standing under a lowering sky, and any minute now they will be soaked to the bone by chilly rain.

Despite his trusty time machine and mastery of Time and Space, he is now standing frustrated on the edge of a field of grain not close to ripening, while his companion shivers in a damp spring breeze, as he fruitlessly jiggles a key in a lock, the closed door of the tall blue box no closer to opening than if he were a nineteen-fifties British police officer needing to call the station. 

The Tardis is buzzing angrily and the key is heating up in his hands.  He pulls it from the lock, weighs it thoughtfully in his hand, shoves it into a pocket.

"Rose, give me your key," he says sharply, and regrets it before the words are even out of his mouth.  His harsh words drop into the cool spring air like stones into a pond, too close to the fight they've just had when Rose tried to save her Dad.  He darts a glance at the girl, wanting to tone it down a little.  She is biting her lip, looking out across the field, pulling the key on its chain over her head.

The key is human-warm from nestling against her breast.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and she darts a surprised glance at him.

How has it come to this? He could have taken her anywhere, any when -- and all she'd wanted to do was comfort her dying dad -- but he'd let her make a paradox, and then blamed her for it, and he'd been swallowed up, and her dear dead dad had sacrificed himself to save the world, and she had held him as he died… and she had seen how rude, suspicious, accusing and unsympathetic a Time Lord could be.

This was meant to be a picnic, just a simple outing on a lovely, uncomplicated planet, a place where the two of them could relax and be themselves. Instead, it's a lockout in the rain. As her key nears the lock, a bright blue spark jumps out and stings him sharply.

He cries out in alarm and drops the key.  She starts back, eyes wide with worry.

"What's wrong?" she asks. "Are we locked out?"

His Tardis is blue, the field is green, the sky is gray and low.  The field is wheat, about six inches high.  The wet blades will swish unpleasantly around their ankles all the way back to the village.

He feels a slow burn of annoyance flare up inside him, along with a hot flush of shame he tries to ignore.

"Yes," he scowls.    "She does this sometimes.  Must need a rest. Best hurry back before the rain sets in."

The Tardis won't let them back in until he's made amends. 

He reaches down and fishes her key out of the wheat grass where it has fallen.  Wiping it clean, he gives it back to her.  For a second she meets his eye, and he hopes his gaze is gentle, grateful.  He knows he is rough now, rude and sharp.  She doesn't deserve it. She hasn't looked at him properly since the chronovore devoured him. She's taken his anger and insults to heart, and she hasn't forgiven herself for what, in truth, hadn't been her fault.

Her gaze falls away.  He offers her his hand.  That, at least, she takes. 

The Doctor shakes his head and they start off back across the field, the way they've just come.   

Aix is an agrarian planet, specializing in tourism and the export of small-scale agricultural products. Lovely place for a picnic, if you enjoy such things as freshly baked bread, perfectly aged cheeses, delicious preserved fruits, fine wine... climate too cool for spices, chocolate, or bananas, but Aix is like nothing so much as a whole planet devoted to Old Earth French country cooking.

The rain is misting lightly, getting heavier moment by moment.  Too bad he doesn't carry a brolly anymore. He stops, shrugs off his leather jacket.

"Here," he says, proffering his jacket with two hands, by the shoulders. 

"I'm okay," she answers, but she's already pale and shivering.

"Get soaked through in that thin cotton, you'll go hypothermic and then I'll be carrying you," he says, more harshly than he means, and the light in her eyes dims yet again, even as she slips into his coat and ducks her chin down inside the collar, pulls it together in front of her and steps away from him.

He reaches out for her hand again, and once more, like a miracle, she lets him take it. He tells himself he likes to hold her hand in case he has to suddenly pull her out of the way of trouble, jeopardy-friendly as she is.  Maybe that's part of it, but it's really her warmth, her strength, the feel of her, right there under his fingertips, a promise that right now at least he's not alone.

"Do you think they know how to make proper tea on Aix?" he asks, conversationally, as they trudge along.

"Don't you know?" Rose asks, shooting him a look. 

"Hmmph," he admits, "not doing so well today with the all-knowing bit." For as much he claims to know everything, what he doesn't know makes up at least 97% of the universe.

"Ha.  Not so much, no," Rose says, but at least she's grinning that tiny little grin, her lip curled up at the corner, her brown eye beginning to recover its jaunty sparkle.

"So make a wish," he says.

"Why?" she asks.  The rain is getting progressively heavier, but the road to the village is just beyond those trees, and the edge of town is not far down the road.

"Why not?"  There used to be a theory, among some of the more eccentric ancient scholars, that magic held true before the Time Lords drove it out.  Maybe -- now -- magic will return, now that his people aren't asserting their mastery over the workings of the cosmos.

"I wish for a nice hot cuppa," Rose says, eyes squinched closed. 

The Doctor feels a shiver.  "Yeah -- I think that did it."

"Really?" Rose says, peering at him.

He nods, smirking, hoping for inscrutable. "Come on!" he says, quickening his pace.

Even with the jacket, Rose is chattery by the time they get back to the village.  The rain is seeping down the back of her neck, and her trousers are soaked below the knees. First order of business is to get her warm and dry. 

Maybe the power of the wish carries them back to the village they'd given up on earlier when the sky clouded over and the wind went chill.  It does seem to be working, because the little cafe is one of the first shops they come to along the main road, and the rain comes down in buckets just as they dart under the awning and into the warm confines of the cafe.

There are patrons at two other tables, a couple of women chatting happily, a young man scrawling his thoughts in an old battered journal. 

The smell of coffee and baked goods fills his nostrils and seems to go straight to his brain.  He feels a heavy weight lift slightly from his shoulders as he gets Rose sitting comfortably, warm cafe, soft chair, steaming cup of tea taking the chill from her hands and several delicious looking jam and shortbread biscuits arrayed on a plate before her.

He watches her over the rim of his dainty cup.  The tea seems to revive her. As soon as she finishes her first cup, he pours her another from the pot.

"Thank you, mother," she says with a smile, and for a second he sees the flash of her playful brown eyes.

"You're quite welcome, Rose," he says, in a high, prim voice, not imitating Jackie.  That earns him a flash of teeth as well.

He relaxes a bit.  Maybe the Tardis is right.  Rough patch— they'll get through it.  Take a little break, a little slow time, just a tad less constant peril.  If he really wants to show her the universe,  the universe does have its quieter, rainier moments. 

"Back in a tick," he says, sauntering over to the counter. A dark-haired young woman lounges at the register, absently leafing through a glamorous off-world magazine displayed in shimmering images over her holographic tablet.  The young are never satisfied, no matter how idyllic the setting they've grown up in.

"Could you refer me to a hotel?" the Doctor asks brightly.

She lifts bored eyes to the Doctor's and taps her tablet.  The magazine shrinks down into an icon, and a lodgings list pops up.   There's a highly rated hotel in town-- completely full. 

"Wedding," says the girl, and the Doctor discerns a light French accent through the Tardis's translation filter. "They've been planning it for months.  The only room I know of in town that's not taken is the room at the bookstore." 

The Doctor's spirits lift at the word "bookstore."  

"Can't see the appeal, myself," the girl sniffs, "dusty, musty, old-fashioned —"

She breaks off at the Doctor's glower.  "Would you care to inquire directly?" the girl smiles, toothy and fake.  She taps another sequence into her tablet, which rings up the bookstore. 

The woman who answers looks to be an older version of the cafe girl.   "Justine's Book and Antiquary, may I help you?" the woman says.

"I'm calling about the room," the Doctor says.

"Oh!" Justine answers, clearly surprised.  "Yes?"

"I'd like to reserve the room.  For tonight," the Doctor says, patiently, he thinks.  There's no telling how long the Tardis will keep him locked out.

"Very well, sir, I'll have it made up for you right away," the woman answers.

The cafe girl rolls her eyes, clearly anxious to take back her tablet and resume her desultory perusal of the magazine.  

"Thanks very much," the Doctor says, and rings off, handing the girl back her tablet.

"She's my sister, if you must know," the girl says.

"I see," the Doctor agrees, and goes back to sit with Rose.

"I found us a place to stay," he says.

"Good," Rose says, noncommittally. 

The Doctor stares at her.  "Don't you want to know where?"

"Where?" Rose dutifully inquires. 

"In a bookstore!" the Doctor exclaims.  He finds himself having to be enthusiastic for the both of them.

"You got us a room in a bookstore," Rose says, and the enthusiasm level around the table takes a dive into the negative.

The Doctor huffs and sits up straighter.  "You lot, trying to kill off the book with electronic copies.  The codex is an optimal technology for long-term information storage and retrieval.  Besides, it's not easy leaving notes in the margins of a data stream.  Libraries should be filled with real books."

"I like books," Rose says, nodding vaguely. She's chasing crumbs around the table top with the tip of her finger. 

"I know you do," the Doctor replies.  "You spend a good deal of time in the library, back on the Tardis."

She blinks up at him. "It's like it goes on forever.  It makes me feel so small. But at the same time, cozy," she muses.

The Doctor just drinks her in.  Like many of his companions, she's just on the cusp of her potential.  Traveling with him opens the doors of the mind, or so he likes to tell himself to justify the danger.  His companions are so much bigger on the inside by the time they leave him -- if they survive. 

"What are you thinking, Doctor?" Rose asks, softly, touching his hand.

He can't put his thoughts into words -- too delicate, too precious to get wrong, to muck up.  He looks away, frowning slightly. 

She sighs and pours herself a little more tea.  The pot is almost empty.  She gestures at his cup.

"Yes, please," he says, and she adds the milk with care, ladles in the sugar with a knowing spoon.  Perfection.  The tea is nice too.

The cafe has heightened their mood considerably, and the bookstore is only a few doors down.  It's a short quick run through the rain, which is heavier now, the clouds turning day to dusk.

They're laughing as they spill inside the bookstore, stamping, trying to shed the rain without giving the inventory of the crowded shop an unwarranted sprinkling.

The woman waves them in from the register.  "You called from the cafe."

"Yes," the Doctor nods, shaking himself off.  Rose pats at her hair.

"Why don't I show you the room," the woman says, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. 

Rose looks at the Doctor, who shrugs.  "Any port in a storm," he whispers. 

Justine leads them through the rooms crowded with shelves, up two flights to a garret. 

"My lodgings are also on this floor… the bathroom is down the hall, and this is the room."

Rose looks shocked.  It couldn't possibly be any tinier and still merit the word "room."

"I don't think that's a double," she whispers to the Doctor, eyes wide.

"I don't think it's a single," he replies sotto voce, "but that's okay, I'll just… stand.  Or something."

Justine lifts one dark brow at the Doctor. 

"We'll take it," he says sheepishly.

Rose's jaw shifts to one side.

"It's fine!" he insists, and smiles at Justine.

"Do you have any nineteenth-century English?" he says brightly.

"Of course!" she says, and they clatter down the stairs, away from the claustrophobic little room. He needs a proactive breather from any potential domestics. 


	2. Chapter 2

Rose finds him a little later. He's immersed himself in a nicely bound copy of Palgrave's Golden Treasury. Of course he knows all the poems by heart, but it's nice to leaf through the pages, and she's caught him lingering over the Robbie Burns, humming a melody that's recently been circling through his mind. 

"Whatcha reading?" Rose asks. 

"Poetry," he says, intentionally obtuse. 

"Yeah?" she answers, looking interested anyway.

He looks down at the page: As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in love am I --

He looks back up at her, hearts pounding in his throat. "Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, / And the rocks melt wi' the sun," he recites -- the only two lines of the poem he can risk out loud with her standing right there in front of him. 

"Rocks melt with the sun," says Rose, "to think I actually saw that."

"Yeah," the Doctor nods. Crazy idea for a first date, but that's the kind of man he is now, it seems.

Rose touches the books. "It's weird, isn't it? We're on some planet that thinks it's Provence, in a bookshop, reading poetry by a Scotsman who's been dead, how long?"

"This is the forty-first century," the Doctor said, "so, right around two thousand years." 

Rose trails her hands across the books. "Two thousand years," she breathes, frowning. 

"It's a bit like your schoolboys reading Latin," the Doctor said.

Rose laughs. "Not my schoolboys! They were more likely reading old copies of 2000 AD."

The Doctor nods. "Still, Keats got it right. A thing of beauty is a joy forever."

He looks at her when he says it, this time, looks right at her, and sees her heart rise into her eyes. His hand moves of its own accord, lifting to caress her cheek. She leans into his hand and he feels that he could lose himself in that gaze, that simple touch: forever. 

Footsteps sound on the stairs, and the moment passes. 

"I'm closing up the bookstore now," Justine says, handing the Doctor a key, "but you two will probably want to go find something to eat. There are several good places I can tell you about."

Rose is tired, so the Doctor doesn't want anything too elaborate, and they choose the place that is nearest. As a bonus, it's run by Justine's cousin Liliane. It really is such a small town that many of the residents are related. The Doctor lends his coat to Rose again, and when they arrive, he goes to the washroom and quickly sonicks his jumper dry. He doesn't mind feeling a little damp, if a delicious meal puts the color back in Rose's cheeks and the smile back on her lips.

It's a wonderful evening. Liliane seats them in a cozy corner away from the other diners. She first brings pastis as an aperitif along with a jug of cool spring water. The Doctor pours, adding the faintest trace of the heady licorice liqueur to the water. Rose sparkles with delight and jokes about the green fairy, even though the Doctor assures her it isn't really absinthe. They sip at their drinks and before long, Rose is nibbling tiny olives and dipping bits of bread into the oil, and the Doctor is watching her so intently that she offers him a morsel from her fingertips.

The look in her eye, daring him to play along, tips the scale against his better judgment. He captures her hand and daintily seizes the bit of bread, just grazing her fingertips with his teeth. Her breath catches, her eyes go wide and dark, and he knows he hasn't made a mistake. So he holds out the next olive, and just as daintily, she takes it from him, the softness of her lips barely registering against his fingers.

When the olives have gone, Liliane gracefully whisks the plate away, bringing them ramekins of rich onion soup, thick with toasted cheese on top. The Doctor feels on fire with the game they've been playing, feeding each other, so he's grateful for the reprieve and dips his spoon with care. Rose makes delighted noises at the flavorful broth, and the Doctor smiles. Despite the rain, being locked out, getting so wet, the tiny room -- this trip is proving to be not so bad after all.

The Doctor chooses a vegetarian risotto for the plat principal, replete with toasted nuts, mushrooms, and succulent diced vegetables. It's like a treasure hunt for his fork. The portion is small, which is to his taste, since he doesn't need much food to keep him going. Rose has curbed her meat consumption since she's been traveling with him, even though he tells her he doesn't mind. Back on the Tardis, her least favorite cupboard in the galley is the one full of nutrition bars. She says they're disgustingly tough and bland, but for him, it's just a painless way to boost his protein intake, along with the hefty proportion of milk he takes in his tea every day.

They have more fun again with the cheese course. There are five different kinds of local, aged cheeses on the board, along with slices of delicious fresh fruit that Rose has never imagined, new varieties that even the Doctor hasn't encountered, bred in the hundreds of years since humanity spread to new planets. The Doctor watches, almost at a remove, almost in awe, as Rose tempts him with little tidbits of cheese and fruit, laughing as he prefers one flavor to another and trying to predict which things he'll enjoy most. He never thought he'd enjoy anything this much again -- something so sensual, so pedestrian as a fancy meal at what humans consider a fine restaurant. 

Dessert is a small bowl of chocolate mousse, drizzled with a tart berry syrup. The Doctor and Rose share the bowl with two spoons. By this point, he is leaning toward her until their foreheads are almost touching. He is so attuned to her that he can almost feel the spoonful of mousse slide across her lips and tongue. She is smiling now, relaxed and happy, the strain of the past few days beginning to fall away.

Liliane brings small cups of strong coffee, with chocolate. The Doctor finds coffee too bitter to really enjoy, but Rose lets the square of chocolate melt in her mouth, chasing it with the coffee. Wanting Rose to experience the full effect of the five star meal, the Doctor asks Liliane to bring put the very best cognac. She brings it with a snifter and shows Rose how to swirl it to best enjoy the aroma. Rose's happy smile at the elegant digestif is more precious to the Doctor than the finest cognac could ever be. 

Rose offers the glass to him and he takes a tiny sip, just letting the flavor travel across his taste buds -- but secretly, he's enjoying the traces of Rose from the rim of her glass, lighting up his senses more excitingly than any mere alcohol, no matter how fine. 

The Doctor settles the check with Liliane -- in forty-first-century terms his line of credit is nearly infinite, though he lets the psychic paper pull the requisite numbers from storage somewhere deep in his brain. A penny saved is a quadrillion earned, as long as one keeps track of the investment. 

The rain is still pounding outside. Liliane offers them an umbrella from a cache she keeps at the door, left by other patrons and never claimed. 

The Doctor gathers Rose close to him, sheltering her on the short walk back to the bookstore, where they let themselves in with the key Justine gave them, remembering to lock up securely behind them.

Now they're standing in the foyer of the bookstore, streetlight shining in dimly through the shop windows. Rose is beautiful, sleepy eyes and parted lips, and the Doctor wants more than anything to keep that relaxed and happy look on her face. 

"I'm not sure what to do about the room," Rose says, a little frown already appearing between her brows. 

"I don't need to sleep. I'm just as happy in a chair," the Doctor assures her. 

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"Positive," he says. What's the alternative, really? Only things he refuses to let himself imagine.

"Okay," she says doubtfully. They go up two flights together, as the Doctor has some notion that he should see her safe to her room. 

He pauses outside the door. "Do you want the sonic -- for your teeth?" the Doctor explains at her quizzical expression.

"Do you really sonic your teeth?" Rose asks, breaking into astonished laughter. 

"Of course!" he responds, half-affronted, half-pleased he's made her laugh. "Toothbrushes, don't get me started. Here, watch: setting 15A. It's one of the most basic settings I have programmed. I mean really. Look at these teeth. They're spotless." He sets the sonic and demonstrates, trying not to laugh at her incredulous expression, trying not to imagine how the familiar tingling sensation would feel inside her mouth. He's done in a few seconds and hands her the screwdriver.

He smiles in delight as she opens her mouth and gingerly presses the on tab, sonicking the top and bottom rows of teeth just as he had done. 

"Hmm," she says, a strange look on her face. "They do feel very, very clean now…. but not exactly minty-fresh."

"Minty-fresh is a flavor, not a setting," he says, frowning, but he's made her laugh again. He doesn't go into the other personal toiletry features of his miraculous screwdriver -- hair clipper, clothes freshener, shoe shiner.... 

"Um, goodnight then, Doctor," Rose says, looking shy.

"Goodnight," he answers, reluctant to go. 

He doesn't make a move to turn away, and neither does she. 

"Goodnight," she whispers, looking up him.

"Goodnight," he whispers back, staring down at her.

"I had a really wonderful evening," she says softly.

"Me too," he answers. 

They've run out of things to say, but she still hasn't turned away. 

"Will you wake me in the morning?" Rose whispers.

"What time?" he asks.

"Whenever you want," she says, but there's something more in her eyes. His instinct is to pull her closer, take her in his arms, open the door, and lie down with her on that narrow bed. In the whole of the universe, right now, there's nothing more important to him than Rose Tyler, beautiful human, staring up at him like he's the only man she's ever seen. He wants that, craves it -- the feeling that he matters to her like she does to him --

He pulls her close, just for a second, allows himself the press of his lips against her forehead. Time holds still for a moment as he catalogs the smell of her hair, the temperature of her skin, the beat of her heart and the flow of her blood and the nerve impulses shooting through her body, the aura of her intentions radiating out from her temporality, that strange familiar golden aura that slips away from him whenever he tries to examine it -- the heft of her human body fragile in his arms, but so strong, so alive and there and real -- so precious -- too precious to risk -- and he pulls away.

"Good night, Rose, sleep well," he says as he turns and in a moment he's down the stairs headed for the nineteenth-century English, ready for the works of Byron and the comfy reading chair Justine has set up in a corner for her customers.

Literature is one of the Doctor's favorite distractions. His Time Lord brain can hold so many layers of experience, he remembers eidetically every time he's read a piece, and the words pick up layer after layer of meaning, multiplying every time he reads them. Now Manfred's vision of Astarte will forever after call up the memory of his lips against Rose's forehead, and a corresponding chain of images of Rose, running, her hand in his, her tongue between her teeth, the Earth exploding, the Gelth oncoming, the chronovores diving, and her brave beauty facing down all of it. Manfred is a git, and so is he if he loses her, survives her with nothing but regret for a cold comfort. 

He starts from the page, the spell broken. Was that a noise from upstairs?

The old house, full of books, creaks and settles in the night, worlds different from the hum of his Tardis as she spins through the vortex. 

There, again, a noise. Rose!

He's up the stairs in an instant, pausing at the door. 

He hears an unhappy groan, and raps lightly at the door. "Rose?" he calls softly.

"Doctor!" Rose calls. "Doctor!" 

He doesn't hesitate, but sonicks the locked door open. 

"Rose, what is it?" he whispers, crouching beside the narrow bed.

But she's still asleep. It's a nightmare. Her eyes are tightly closed, her brow clenched.

"Doctor!" she calls again. "No! Doctor!"

"Sh," he says, feeling helpless. He lays touches her shoulder, bare beneath the sheet. 

"Oh!" she says, breathing in sharply, and her eyes finally open, muzzy and unfocused.

"Doctor?" she mumbles.

"Yes, Rose, I'm here. You were having a nightmare," he says, patting her gently.

"Horrible! Those things, from the sky, they were chasing you --" she groans.

"That's all over and done with. You'll never see those things again," he soothes. 

"Please," she says, "stay with me. Lie down next to me. Please, Doctor," Rose begs.

He's truly helpless now. He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the doorknob, and lies down, spooning himself to her back, on top of the covers with the sheets and blankets between him and her naked skin. 

"Thank you," she whispers, and with a heavy sigh, she falls back asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the night is heaven and hell in one sweet-smelling, Rose-shaped package. She begged him to stay, so he can't refuse. Now, here he is, pressing against her through layers of cloth, his long body folded around hers, wide awake, all senses trained on her as she sleeps, imprinting her just this much more deeply into his awareness. He can hear her heartbeat now, her digestion; he's so close he can almost hear her dreams, muffled, as though from behind a closed door, and when they start to get louder and more unpleasant, he easily turns her back to sunshine and daisies without even reaching out with his mind toward hers, merely a stroke of his hand along her arm.

He knows the moment she begins to awaken, the changes in her body temperature and heart rate singing out to him, even before she takes her awakening breath and her eyes flutter open. 

"Good morning, Rose," he murmurs, soothingly. What will she say?

"Oh, my god, I've never slept so well in my life," she says, stretching. She turns under the sheets to face him, her hair a delightful mess all around her face. "What did you do?"

"Do?" he says innocently. "You had a nightmare. You asked me to stay with you."

"I remember that," Rose says, "but then when I fell back asleep, I slept so well it was like no time passed -- I feel completely refreshed."

"Huh," the Doctor says. "I'll put that on the brochure if I ever need work. Guaranteed human sleep aid, me!" he teases. But he must've been regulating her bodily processes subconsciously with his own. He'd probably improved her digestion by twenty-five or thirty percent just by lying next to her. He doesn't know what she would think of that, so he doesn't say it. 

"You want me to sonick your clothes fresh, Rose?" the Doctor asks.

Rose laughs again, running a hand through her wild hair. "Is there anything you don't use that thing for?" Rose asks in a low voice.

"Erm," he frowns, but his hearts beat faster at the playful tone of her voice.

"That would be very nice of you, Doctor," Rose says, smiling. "Right now, I want a shower."

There's no robe, so she wraps up in a sheet for the short walk to the bath, and while she's gone he carefully freshens her clothes. He folds them into a neat little pile and leaves them for her to find just outside the bathroom door.

Downstairs, Justine is nibbling at a croissant and coffee, already set up at her register for the day.

"Good morning, Doctor," she says.

"Good morning!" he smiles.

"Pleasant night?" she asks, knowingly.

"Yes," he says simply.

"How long might you be staying?" she asks. 

"Long as the mood lasts," he answers which is true, only it's the Tardis's mood. "Is that all right?"

"Certainly," Justine answers. "You'll enjoy our little town. It has a bit of everything."

"Wonderful," the Doctor says, just as Rose appears, fresh and clean, wet hair divided into two loose braids.

"Ready for breakfast?" the Doctor asks.

"Yes!" Rose exclaims, taking his outstretched hand.

The world outside has been scrubbed clean by the rain overnight, and everything is fresh and dazzling, if more than a little damp. The sunlight sparkles off of millions of tiny droplets of water. Even the sidewalks and streets dazzle with reflections of the clear morning sky. 

"It's amazing," Rose says, as they stroll toward the cafe for breakfast. "Here we are, walking down a little village street… it looks and feels almost like Earth, but it's like, there's something just a little bit different to the air, or the light…"

"Yeah, this sun's a bit warmer than yours, this planet's a bit further out… humanity has a talent for finding this type of planet, making a home."

"Mmm," Rose says, pondering. "Do they control the weather here? It's so much warmer and clearer than yesterday."

"Only in times of drought," the Doctor says. "Just because it's possible to control the weather, doesn't make it cost-effective."

"Right," Rose says, thinking. "It's just a little odd, how not odd things are."

The Doctor makes an outrageous face, puffing out his cheeks, crossing his eyes, pulling his chin down into his neck. 

Rose bursts out laughing. "What are you doing!?" she exclaims.

"You wanted odd, I'm pulling a Gookie," says the Doctor. "Classic Harpo."

Rose stares at him. "You like Harpo, do you?"

"Kind of resembled him once," he admits. "More teeth, less honking."

Rose laughs. The Doctor is so happy to have this lightheartedness back between them. 

"It's at least a little odd," he insists, and makes the Gookie again. 

"No doubt," Rose says, laughing. Their hands swing comfortably between them as they walk smiling along the strangely ordinary sidewalk. 

The cafe offers an array of freshly baked croissants and the delicious fruit preserves which have made Aix so prosperous, but the menu also offers smoothies, which the Doctor has recently learned he quite enjoys. The yoghurt on Aix is rich and delicious, and they have an impressive array of frozen fruit pulps for a planet with no tropics. The Doctor's smoothie is an eye-popping swirl of turquoise and purple. Even with no banana in, it's a meal in itself. Rose is amused by watching him sip the smoothie through the straw. He offers her a few spoonfuls, wishing he were the spoon as she hums in delight. 

After breakfast, Rose wants to shop, since they're living out of their pockets.

"We could pick up a few necessities," the Doctor agrees. He's always made it clear that he'll provide for her on their travels; he's done the same for everyone who has travelled with him. 

They meander through the streets of the little town, going in and out of different establishments.

"It's just hard to get it in my head," she says. "This town is over a hundred years old -- but it's on a planet, far from earth --but it looks so much like earth!"

"There are so many planets like Earth, Rose," the Doctor says. "Of course, none exactly like… but enough that human beings can easily find nice ones like this to colonize once they've got around the light barrier."

"How does that work again?" Rose asks innocently.

"That would be telling," the Doctor says loftily. "The Tardis does it by standing still."

"Right, what?" Rose laughs.

"Never mind, it takes years just to explain," the Doctor says.

At the center of town they find a wonderful market where farmers and craftspeople from the surrounding area ply their wares. Rose and the Doctor put together an incredible picnic, poring over the stands, selecting all kinds of goodies, from preserves and cheeses to bread and wine. 

The Doctor stows the packages away in his pockets, which, as always, are bigger on the inside. Rose laughs as he adroitly performs a disappearing act with a loaf of bread, slipping it slyly into his pocket and looking around furtively, like a spy. 

"Doesn't all that stuff weigh down your jacket?" she wants to know. He's already tucked away two bottles of wine, three rounds of cheese, and some really excellent looking pots of jam. 

"No," the Doctor says, lightly swinging a bag that's cradling a pint of ripe berries. "The pockets aren't really inside the coat, you know -- they're elsewhere, so the mass of the contents is elsewhere as well."

"Huh," Rose says, with a grin.

They find a little store that sells linens, and Rose chooses a green checked picnic cloth, matching napkins, and an over the shoulder tote to carry them in, along with a few utensils and unbreakable wine glasses. 

"This picnic will be perfect," she beams, and he smiles back at her.

They head out of town, back to where the Tardis is parked. The green wheat field is much more beautiful out from under the threat of thunderclouds. 

The Tardis still won't let them in, but it's not the crushing bother it had been the day before. Today, they know they have a place to sleep; they know they can tap into the Doctor's unlimited credit stream for meals and purchases; they've even made friends of a sort at several places in town.

They walk on a little way, looking for the perfect picnic spot. The walk is pleasant. The sun has dried the grass, and they amble along, as birds or insects or whatever lives in the trees on this earth-like planet sing their homey hearts out. Spring, it seems, is universally spring. The Doctor thinks of tafelshrews and singing silver trees but hurries his thoughts along. None of that, not today, not with bright sunlight shining golden on the brown-eyed girl smiling up at him, bold as she ever was. 

They stop under an oak overlooking a pasture with a few spoiled dairy cows sedately munching in the distance. 

"An oak!" Rose murmurs, holding up a perfect acorn for him to inspect, a gleaming, nut-brown treasure. 

"Yeah," he agrees, "beautiful."

"For an oak," she says with a smirk, tossing the acorn.

How he wishes he'd never done that to her.

They spread the picnic cloth out in the soft grass under the spreading arms of the oak. Rose sits cross-legged, holding her wine glass in her left hand, picking out delicacies with her right hand and popping them into her mouth. It's a lovely sight, and the Doctor's not hungry. He'd much rather feast on the vision in front of him. 

Before long they're playing spot the cloud, and Rose's head is on his thigh, and she's laughing up at the sky as he claims to recognize all types of creatures and famous landmarks from distant planets and ancient or future civilizations. 

"That's the famous third left appendage of the Emperor of Treem," he claims.

"You're so full of it!" she cries.

"Who, me?" he answers, feigning shock.

She's holding his left hand with her own, and his right hand has made its way into her hair.

"This tree is really lovely," she says. The sun, slightly bigger and hotter than the one she grew up under, is making its way down a sky just a bit bluer than Earth's. The sunlight is picking out every twig, every new green leaf, and making it into a gem. 

"A spreading oak diagrams a fractal against the sky, mirroring the hidden roots that branch through the soil below," he comments.

Rose looks up at him seriously. "Is that a poem?"

"No, it's the mathematical structure of the universe."

"Beauty is math, math beauty?" Rose quips.

He's been reading Burns and Byron, but apparently she remembers her Keats. He nods, considering.

They stare up into the sky as the clouds drift, bright against blue. Birdsongs fill the air with secret melody.

"I don't know much about birds," Rose says.

"Hail to thee, blithe spirit!" the Doctor quotes. 

Rose sticks her tongue out. "I read that one in school. Blech."

He runs the poem in his mind. The loveliness of the day, the tree, the sunshine, but most of all, the woman who's sharing it all with him….  
"The poem's not so bad, but today, right here, right now, this is better."

Rose stares up at him. "Right here, right now…. you travel through time and space, never pausing to take a breath…. but what you really want is to live in the moment."

She's summed him up in a sentence. He simply nods.

"With a normal person, we can leave the past behind, and it doesn't do us any good to obsess about the future, but you…"

"Everything is now for me. All the possible nows are spread out to explore, an endless terrain… except for the rivers I've already muddied."

She frowns. "So once you've been somewhere…"

"Can't cross my own time stream. Or, I can, but shouldn't… part of being a Time Lord is being able to sense when the time stream can't be tampered with, when it's liable to collapse into paradox, or when possibilities are open."

"So it's not something that a person could learn…" Rose says.

"No. It's a sense, like sight, or hearing, or the way your birds navigate by following the magnetic poles." The Doctor doesn't hear accusation in her voice, but feels his guilt nonetheless.

"So I'll never know… if I can save someone, unless you tell me."

The Doctor frowns, and swallows. The pause must go on too long, because Rose sits up. His leg feels cold.

"Never mind," she says, trying to pull away, but he doesn't let her go.

"No," he says, touching her chin with one gentle finger, waiting till he has her full attention. "I was wrong to yell at you. I was the one who mucked it up. I was ashamed, lost my temper, pinned it on you. You made a mistake -- but in good faith. I'm the only one who can sense a paradoxical crux. I'm the one who's responsible. I'm sorry, Rose."

"I'm sorry, too," she says. Her voice is small. He doesn't like the sound of Rose feeling guilty and sad.

"You've nothing to be sorry for. Well, not nothing, but it wasn't your fault, not really," he says.

"I never knew my dad. I just wanted -- I liked him. He was nice, wasn't he?" Tears are in her eyes and she does pull away from him this time.

"He was brilliant," the Doctor says sincerely. "Everything I thought your dad would be."

"A stupid ape," she says, bitterly.

"No," he says, reaching out for her hands, but she folds them in her lap. "Please, forget I ever said that. A brilliant, courageous Human, just like his daughter."

"Cause if you ever, ever call me something like that again -- I'll smack you one, and you'll remember it!" Rose threatens, and over the tremor in her voice Jackie's strident tones ring out. He deserves it. 

"Cross my hearts, slap me to the moon if ever I do," he swears. 

"Pinky swear," Rose says solemnly, and the Doctor seals the vow with the girl he adores.

Rose lets out a heavy breath. Her cheeks are red as she begins to pack up the picnic. The Doctor hopes she'll take his apology to heart. He's not used to making apologies. He prefers to evade consequences rather than face them. But Rose is more than worth the humiliation of a retraction. He can bear it, or much worse, if it makes things between them all right again. Or better than all right -- better than ever.


	4. Chapter 4

It's a quiet walk back to town. They go back to the cafe for a spot of afternoon tea, but they don't need anything to eat, so when the pot is empty, they head back to the bookstore. 

It's a while until closing time, so Justine is still at the register. 

"I hope you've had a lovely day," she says.

"Oh yes," the Doctor replies, and Rose nods, and smiles, and the Doctor hopes she means it.

"I was wondering if you have a listing of entertainments for tonight," the Doctor asks.

Justine pulls a tablet from a cubby in her counter and consults it. "Cinematics, live theater, music, dancing?"

The Doctor's hearts jutter when Justine says "dancing;" he was envisioning a bit of Shakespeare or Muldronay, something passionate and classic -- or perhaps some live acoustic music in a quiet bar, drinks and talking…. 

But of course Rose's eyes are sparkling with glee. "Dancing, absolutely," she says, grinning ear to ear.

Justine gives her a knowing look. The Doctor gives in, nodding.

"The Red Curtain always has dancing. It's right next to the hotel; you'll find it easily."

"What's the dress code?" Rose asks. The Doctor feels his face set into an irritated scowl. Will he really need to change?

"Casual," Justine assures, smiling at the Doctor, who can't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

"We can go to a boutique if you'd like a fancier outfit," the Doctor hears himself saying. Rose turns to look at him, eyebrows high with surprise. "But you look beautiful just as you are."

Her jaw drops a little, and she narrows her eyes, but he says no more, taking pains not to let his mouth run away from him as it so often does. 

She composes herself. "Thanks, Doctor," she says.

He merely nods. 

"If you really don't mind," she says, "I'd love to see if I can find a dress, or a skirt at least -- more fun for dancing. Maybe some shoes?"

"I don't mind," he says lightly, and is surprised to find that it's true.

"Try my friend's shop on Rue Mazarin, I'll ring and let her know you're dropping in. Let me just -- " Justine aims her tablet at Rose and snaps a picture, which apparently includes her measurements, because by the time she and the Doctor have made their way across town to the boutique, there are already several complete outfits laid out for her. She tries on outfits in black, rose, and turquoise -- but of course, she looks best in the rose, a long crepe skirt in hot pink and orange, and a loose peasant blouse in the palest pink. The skirt is long enough that her trainers look fine underneath, but she picks out a pair of strappy red mary janes with heels just high enough for dancing. They explain that they've lost their luggage, and Rose wears the clothes out of the store, while the shop owner promises to send her things over to Justine's -- along with a dainty cottonish nightgown, white with little pink flowers, that Rose says is adorable. The Doctor diverts his attention while Rose selects some undergarments to add to her parcel, and then he's paying, and Rose is practically skipping out of the shop, her new shoes dangling in a bag from her wrist.

"Oh, how fun!" Rose laughs. "You probably can't understand how fun it is to just go on a spree once in a while, and buy things you don't really need."

"No," he smiles, "but I'm happy if you are."

"I so am!" Rose laughs, twirling, her new skirt floating festively around her. 

The Red Curtain is a lounge, with a bar, tables, a dance floor, and a small stage lined with the eponymous red drapes, where a singer, guitar player, and drummer are playing. The place isn't crowded but there are plenty of people drinking, snacking, conversing -- and dancing. 

The Doctor shifts nervously from foot to foot. "Can I get you a drink?" he asks.

"Ha. If this were a London dancehall, I'd want a shandy," Rose says, "but I have no idea what they serve here in this day and age."

The Doctor perks up. A ginger shandy is his favorite, and even slightly inebriating, due to the ginger.

In short order, he brings two shandies to the table Rose has picked out. The ginger is sharp and the drink is fizzy. The Doctor smiles and Rose smiles back.

The band strikes up a tune with a nice beat for dancing, and the floor begins to fill up.

The Doctor takes a fortifying drink of his shandy, stands, and holds out his hand. Rose looks up at him, more than pleased; her eyes are dark and predatory, and she licks her lips as she takes his hand. 

They make excellent dance partners. As he sees how responsive Rose is, the Doctor relaxes into his lead. Every shift of his hand, every tilt of his hips, Rose follows perfectly. They move in easy synchrony in their slot on the crowded floor. The Doctor hardly notices the other dancers; he only has eyes for Rose. Her pale pink blouse sets off her creamy skin, and her brightly colored skirt sways entrancingly around her hips. 

"You're a marvelous dancer," he says in her ear, as he pulls her close.

"So are you," she answers, and smiles back at him.

They dance and dance, fast songs, slow songs, always hand in hand even if the song doesn't call for a closer hold. Rose spins and skips in her new red shoes, light and nimble, laughing happily. 

The band announces they're due for a break, striking up a slow song. The Doctor pulls Rose close and they sway in a hold as old as time itself. Rose feels wonderful in his arms. Everything about her thrills his senses. He can't help but caress her softly as they dance, his hand low on her back, her other hand gently holding onto his. 

She lays her head against him, and the smell of her hair rises up into his nostrils. He breathes deep, filling his lungs with her scent, and she sighs, relaxing even more into his arms. 

"Doctor?" she murmurs. 

"Yes?" he answers, almost in a daze from the feel of her, so soft in his arms. He thinks he could dance with her like this forever. 

"Kiss me," she says, lifting her face expectantly, her brown eyes deep as the sky.

"Oh, Rose," he says, and his lips fall to hers like he's obeying the laws of gravity for once. 

Dancing in public is bad enough; Time Lords are meant to be strict, reserved and dignified. But there aren't any more Time Lords to tut at him with disapproval, and it's not like he's ever given two figs for their opinion anyway. Kissing Rose, he could almost forget the other dancers, each caught up in their own little worlds, all around them, but he can't be as bold as he'd like to be with so many people around. There's a little frisson of embarrassment as his lips tremble on hers, as he longs to deepen the kiss and crush to him, claim her like he wants to do so badly, but he can't. What he's feeling for her is so intense, so private-- he can't bring himself to pull away from her--

"Rose," he says, desperately, kissing her with unbearable restraint, "Rose!"

"Doctor, would you like to get out of here?" She smiles at him with a hopeful look.

"Oh, yes!" he says, and his face feels like it will break from the intensity of his smile. 

The cool night air is such a relief after the heat of dancing. The little town is quiet; no one else is on the street. They walk away from the club, hands clasped tightly together. They pause to turn a corner, and suddenly the Doctor is sweeping Rose into his arms. 

Her hands come up, she's carding her fingertips through his close-cropped hair, pressing herself as close to him as she can get, and he's taking her mouth the way he's wanted to for so long, licking inside, tasting her, filling himself with the feel of her all around him. The planet hurtles, carrying them through space, and the Doctor feels almost dizzy as everything seems to revolve around Rose.

"Rose, Rose," is all he can say, all he can think. He pours his desire into his kisses, and she drinks him in, feeding back her need for him in equal measure.

His hands creep up toward her temples, are suddenly there. He touches her, delicate, still holding back his most intimate touch.

He thinks to her, gently as he can, "Rose, may I come in?"

"In - inside my head?" Rose asks, pulling back from him just enough to look into his face.

"Yes," he says out loud, "is that okay?" Please, please, please-- he feels like all he is, is begging for just the chance that she'll let him in. 

"It's safe, is it?" she asks.

"I think so," he says. "Maybe, maybe we should wait--"

Her eyes fly wide and her hands press his to her temples.

"No more waiting!" she says, and squinches her eyes closed with the force of her wanting him, welcoming him, taking him in. And there she is, blazing, dazzling him at the portals of his mind -- so open, so inviting, so ready for him -- so much love. He gasps, almost staggering. 

"We really… really… should wait…." he gasps, but it's no use. Luckily there's a tree growing right there on the sidewalk, the way civilized places do urban forestry, and he blesses the tree as he falls back against it -- a cherry -- and he laughs in his confusion and delight as his thoughts sweep chaotic against hers, and everything he's ever wanted is right here, right, her, after everything, after worlds burning, the dreadful screams, the silence, and now he's not alone, never will be again, and his whole being, torn and scarred, soothes itself against the searing light that is Rose Tyler. 

He knew she was brilliant, he knew she was special, glorious in all her Human ingenuity and compassion -- but now he sees her potential, all she will become, and at last he understands the aura that's puzzled him for so long. 

Rose and his Tardis — she looks inside, and the Tardis loves her, forges and tempers her a fully-fledged child of Time -- more so even than the Time Lords ever dared become. In some near future, every future, this happens, is happening, and somehow, has always happened, and Rose is his Goddess, that one all-powerful gleaming strand of Time that's been wrapped securely around him all his lives, pulling him here and there, into peril and out of it, till she was born, and ready, and waiting for him there in her dead-end job, ready for him to say run, and to ask twice, and to be the stolen Time Lord who carries her out into the universe. 

"Rose, you're amazing," he whispers, in awe. 

"You're pretty impressive yourself," she returns, covering his face with eager kisses, clinging to his hands, pulling away. "Let's get to bed and do this properly." 

And so they run, crazy, laughing through the quiet streets of a French village on a distant future planet, and he fumbles the key twice getting them into the bookstore, and they charge up the stairs, giggling and whispering like they're drunk off their feet, but they're not, they're just so, so in love, and they've waited so long, so many lifetimes, and not another second's delay will be tolerated by either of them.


	5. Chapter 5

The bed is so narrow, a maiden's bed, but Rose Marion Tyler isn't a maiden. By the age of nineteen, she's been through the affairs of the heart, seen betrayal, rigidity, laziness and disappointment from all sides, and she knows what it means to be a friend, a lover, a partner, the other half of someone's soul -- because she's found the soul at last who is her other half. All this she offers up to him on her narrow bed, and he thanks the universe for its mercy in giving him to her, the one young thing in all creation who could take such an ancient, broken creature as he's become, and put him back together again, better than he ever was. 

The bed is more than wide enough, so closely they press against one another, kissing, greedy fingers pushing cloth aside until it's flung away, and it's not long before Rose is naked on the bed, the covers kicked down, and she's fiery hot against the coolness of his skin, flushed all over with desire, the musky human scent of her arousal thickening the masculine parts he'd thought were long dormant until she brought them eagerly back to life. 

He remembers, vaguely, through a distant haze, the wife he'd taken long ago according to the way of his people: a respectful mingling of minds, her receptivity triggering his climax inside her body, his gratitude for bearing him a daughter. Gallifreyans armored themselves with propriety and ceremony and thick heavy clothing, desperate to keep from drowning in the rumbling morass of undifferentiated thought.

He'd never dared to hope that falling in love would be so different. He had loved, of course, but not like this, not with every thought, every breath of his being, yearning to get inside her and never be apart from her. Not like this, with all the lusts of his body, the pounding of his hearts, the exultant ache of his soul calling out to mate with hers.

He is a quick learner, and he already knows so much about the way she likes to be touched. She thrills to his strength; she likes feeling the power he's holding back, yearning against the gentleness he unleashes against her; she loves the teasing touches that leave her arching toward him, every muscle quivering for more.

She loves to be directed and praised. "Put your hands here," he says, and her heart simply pounds, and "good girl" makes her shudder and moan. "Do you like this?" he says, even though he knows she does, because her moans of "oh, yes!" multiply her pleasure exponentially.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" he says, and she shakes her head, and he says, "So very beautiful." He investigates her body, taking his time, praising every part of her in rich detail as he glories in it: "such luscious lips… the strong column of your neck, the secret place here behind your ear that smells so good, this little area here between your breasts that's distracted me for so long, where I'd see a drop of sweat trickle down and yearn to chase it with my tongue, like this… and oh, these breasts, so soft and delicious, and it makes you feel so good when I kiss them, doesn't it?" Her wordless moans drive him on, and he kisses her nipples, suckling, nibbling, nosing at her as he fondles and strokes her sides and belly. 

"Oh Rose, do you know how delicious you smell? I have a good sense of smell, you know… your scent hangs all over the Tardis, driving me crazy … sometimes I smell you on your own hand, did you know that?" He licks at her, making luxurious sounds as the taste of her skin explodes on his tongue.

Her legs fall open, admitting the wanderings of his curious, questing fingers, and he feels like a devil, encouraging her to explore her own desire for his enjoyment. "Here, give me your hand. See how wet you are— I like that very much. Do you like it gentle, teasing?"

She moans her assent, her body shuddering with pleasure under his hand and hers joined together.

He urges her on. "Tease yourself for me— that's the way. It's so lovely, touching your body's most delicate place, together like this. Can you feel how ready you are? Guide my fingers however you like best. Let me stroke you open, Rose -- your most beautiful blossom opening for me, so slick and ready."

By this point, Rose is in a fever of arousal, her thoughts so loud they ring into his mind, pounding out his name amid declarations of her desire.

"I think you need a little relief, would you like that?" he murmurs, sliding down her body.

"Oh! yes, please Doctor," is all she can muster. 

"May I kiss you, here, and put my fingers inside you?" He doesn't need to ask, he knows what she wants, but his words inflame her even more.

Eyes tightly closed, fists full of bed sheet, Rose opens her legs a little more, her thighs quivering with need.

"Please, please, please--" Now she's the one begging. 

He peers down at her sex, wet and flushed and smelling heavenly. He delicately licks, and her arousal floods into his brain. He parts her folds and slips a finger inside, feeling her grip and flutter around him, then he easily adds another finger, feeling for the place inside her that drives her wild. Still licking, ever so lightly, he finds that place, and holds her down as she bucks when he strokes there, gentle, but deep and insistent. She's chanting his name now, begging, and it sounds so sweet. Finally he lowers his mouth to her sex, and begins to suck at the little cluster of nerves, and she roars, clamping down on him, pounding her fists, and he feels so proud, and by the vortex, how he wants to be inside her, to feel that hot strength caressing his own sex.

He eases away from her, lets her catch her breath. Her face is flushed as she tries to breathe, shaking from the wracking climax he's just given her. He takes her mouth again in a lazy kiss, letting her taste her own flavor. Her lips are so soft and relaxed -- he's given this to her -- and there's more to come.

"Oh, Doctor," she moans, "that was lovely. So lovely!" 

He forgives her for running out of words. 

"Make love to me?" she asks.

"I was, or so I thought?" he teases.

"Very well, too!" she agrees, smiling -- "but I mean, with -- or don't Time Lords do it that way?"

"I can, but I need to be in your mind as well," he says. Time Lords had given up sex -- how stupid of them!

"Please," Rose says, lifting his fingers to her temples. 

He easily slips into her mind, now that they've thrown down their defenses, and he's amazed yet again by the glorious love she feels for him. 

"Oh, Rose," he sings out, "Feel how grateful I am to you, how in awe of you I am, how much I love you, how I adore you!"

"Oh, my Doctor," Rose answers. "I've been waiting for you. How could we have waited for so long?"

"I don't know-- just stubborn, I reckon!"

Their mental laughter rings out like bells and sunlight and flashes of joy. 

"I want you to make love to me," Rose thinks, and the Doctor feels his body respond.

"Your wish is my command," he says, reclaiming the words from the sting of his earlier, near-fatal mistake. 

He feels his sex swelling, questing for hers, and he presses inside her. It's so, so good, her heat embracing him, caressing him, surrounding him with the feeling of her crescendo into ecstasy. He soaks up her pleasure, multiplies it, and feeds it back, pulsing inside her, expanding to fill her, thrusting with his hips, pinning her down as she opens herself to him.

"Take me-- make me yours forever," she pleads with her thoughts.

His mind surges forward, unable to resist staking such a claim. With a monumental effort, he holds back just long enough to ask, "Forever? Be sure -- forever mine, Rose Tyler?"

"Oh, yes, Doctor -- yes!" Her whole being rings with such a resounding yes that he fairly seizes her, body, mind and soul, latching onto her with all his considerable strength. He's been mistaken for a god, but now he stakes his claim on his Goddess, threading himself through her, in and out of time, releasing his seed into her body, howling his rapture into her thoughts, and losing himself in ecstasy when their souls come together, sealing the two of them forever in holy union.

When he comes back to himself, he finds he is smiling, and she is too, stroking him and gazing at him at smiling, the sweet, wise, loving smile that's always been his to claim.

"I love you," he says simply. He scoops up her hand, and kisses it.

"I love you, too," she answers, and she scoots even closer to him, twining their limbs together, and there is plenty of room for the two of them on the narrow bed.

He watches her as she sleeps, chases butterflies into her dreams, and wakes her with the sunlight in the morning.

She opens her eyes, and smiles at him. He smiles back.

"Forever," she says.

"Yeah," he says. He reaches out with a tendril of thought, just to see her eyes widen.

"We -- you -- we don't need to touch?" she gasps.

"No -- is that all right?" he says. There are defenses he can teach her if it isn't.

"It's brilliant!" she laughs, and her joyful laughter pours into his mind. He's going to have to learn how to be seriously happy now that Rose has access to his brain. 

It's hard for them to get out of bed, after such a night of bliss, so many hours made wonderful with cuddles and kisses, clever fingers and happy thoughts -- but when her stomach growls despite his Time Lord physiology efficiently regulating hers -- they get up, and shower as best they can with so many hot, wet distractions -- and make their way beaming downstairs. 

"Good morning!" Justine laughs, pointing at the clock. It's late afternoon. 

They wave, laughing sheepishly, and head out to find nourishment and tea. They linger over soup and salad, drinking tea and talking. The Doctor is sure he's never felt so relaxed before, in any lifetime. Always, he's been at the mercy of that near-crippling urge to dash toward the next adventure -- but now, that urge feels sated, at least for the moment, Rose's hand over his, her thoughts sparkling musically through his like a stream through a forest, and their quiet conversation -- full of play, cleverness, interchange, brilliance-- he's never known what it it's like to be this happy. 

As though to harden himself with some minor disappointment, he suggests they walk out to the Tardis to try the key.

Rose chuckles. "When she locked us out, it felt like the end of the world," she says.

"I know," he says ruefully.

"Now, of course, I don't want to be locked out, but I don't feel the hurry," she says.

"Me neither!" he laughs. His wonderful, faithful Tardis, must've recognized Rose long before he did.

They caper and play as they walk out of town and across the field. Like a dream, the journey takes a fraction as long as the first several times they trudged it. The trees are nearly deafening with birdsong. The sun shines hot. It seems spring has sprung with a vengeance.

The Doctor laughs as he digs the key out of his pocket. They look at it together, and letting out his breath, he puts the key in the lock. It turns and the door swings open. The hum of the Tardis sings into their minds, a loud welcome home.

"Oh!" Rose says, laughing.

"Ha, ha," the Doctor shouts into the Tardis. 

Rose darts off to her room to pack a few things. The Doctor waits, his hand on the console. The Tardis seems smug.

"This what you were after all along, then?" he asks.

She hums on, innocently. Under the console, the vortex sings in her heart, as it somehow already sings in Rose's. He knows now he has nothing to fear from loving a creature who seems so short-lived and fragile -- she's something much bigger and stronger than he has ever been. Nothing to fear, everything to look forward to. 

Rose bounces back into the console room, all energy, ready for anything. 

"Back to town, eh? I packed another dress!" she laughs, a dare in her tone.

The Doctor laughs too, and he picks her up, swings her around, and kisses her. He's actually looking forward to a lot more dancing.


End file.
